Lazarus
by Jacquzy
Summary: Or, how Prussia attended his own funeral, and almost became half-decent whilst doing so. Prussia dies, and attends his own funeral. Except he doesn't die, and it's all hilarious. Really. De-anon from the Kink Meme.
1. Chapter 1

There had been a moment, when Prussia had at last reached the wet and thick gardens of Sanssouci, swollen green and grey with rain, and come across the murmuring huddle of black-and-lace-garbed nations, who had not seen him upon the terrace wringing out his ruined jacket, muttering curses against unawesome clouds, and lame cops, and that dumb Serbische Mafia, when his heart had given pause; he had seen things like this before, on the cinema screen, when protagonists moved through the whole flickering film reel before it hit them; that they were no longer of this world – and he wondered, briefly, if he was perhaps dead.

But no – his heart was still beating, he discovered, beneath a hand that was most definitely _not _shaking, no, not at all – beneath the shelter of the terrace, beneath the heavy iron sky...and though he was not close enough to that still, sombre congregation for them to easily spy him, he could hear their words, carried like dry leaves on the wind, across the waterlogged lawns.

And he regained himself again, and tipped his chin up, and smiled. They thought he was dead.

They thought he was _dead. _

It was testament, he supposed, gazing out over the fantastical scene before him, pale eyebrows high beneath his rain-spiked hair, to his sheer _awesomeness_, that nearly the whole world (in a manner of speaking), had turned out to pay tribute to him; to remember him with love, and admiration, and fondness; to dress up in black and lace, and weep, and mourn his passing, when in actual fact he wasn't even the slightest bit dead yet.

Wow.

His friends were all fucking_ morons._

He already knew that, of course – but here, in the shelter of the terrace, with the lawn and the black and the wet smudged across the grey pane of weather before him, this thought hit him harder than ever before – and his lips pressed together, turned up at the corners, and he bit dents into his cheeks, and the hiss of disbelieving laughter that escaped him shook his shoulders and his chest, and he had to clamp his teeth down on his tongue to stop himself making any more noise.

Yes; it was a funeral. _His_ funeral. And he was there to bear witness.

Not that he was attending, as such; he was merely a bystander, a quiet ghost beyond the flower beds, and Fritz's grave, silently observing that sorry band of countries who struggled beneath the downpour with their umbrellas; clutching their dark coats tightly around their hollow chests and bent waists, drooping like old storm-beaten willow trees.

He watched them a while, shaking his head and grinning, and shrugging at Gilbird in a "Well, what're we going to do with them, huh, Birdie?" kind of way. And then he saw, at long last, through a gap between two hunched backs, a water-streaked portrait of himself, resplendent in crisp military uniform, and for a moment he thought it would have been more accurate had that pale figure within the frame been blood-smeared and cruel; not smiling; nor stood erect, shoulders back, chest out, medals glinting. But then again – perhaps that wasn't important.

He looked at the picture a little longer; squinted at it through the persistent drizzle; and the true surrealism of the situation hit him, in the chest and the head and behind his knees like a huge, blow-up novelty hammer.

It was his funeral; and if he hadn't been certain of it before, he was now.

There was no coffin, of course.

Prussia thought, with regret, of his brother's beloved Mercedes Benz SLR, crumpled and engulfed in flames. He had left the car behind; and he did not know whether the authorities had managed to salvage any part of it. This, he thought – this whole bizarre scenario playing out before him seemed to suggest not. How absurd, he mused, that they believed he had died in something as tiny as a car crash. Nations did not perish in car crashes. Nations were scratched in such things.

But then he was not a nation; not quite, not any more.

Not quite a nation; and not quite one of those thin, pale humans who withered and perished in the blink of their country's eyelid; in a lazy yawn; in a slow, languorous smile.

He smiled too, again, stood upon the terrace with Gilbird perched beside him, and shook his head. At least he would have something to write about in his diary tonight.

_Dear Diary._

_Today, I was so awesome I went to my own funeral. Kesesesesese! Oh yeah! Everyone was so glad to see me alive they made today International Prussia Appreciation Day. We all sing my national anthem, and I get presents and stuff! West admitted I was the best brother ever, and promised to be my slave for the rest of the month! He even said I could move out of the basement and have his room instead! And then Italy gave me a kiss, and that sissy Austria cried because he was so jealous! But I said there was plenty of me to go around, and he practically fell into my arms. Occupied his vital regions SO HARD!_

_Oh, got to go, he's begging me for round seven – _

He sniggered again, rubbing a hand over his eyes, shaking his head, because really – how much dumber could these guys get? Honestly, they were falling to pieces without him!

The dark crowd in the rain before him stirred. One of those transient humans; a balding minister wearing robes and exceedingly thick glasses appeared at the side of his picture, and looked out over the wet assembly. Through the steady beat of the rain, Prussia heard a dry little sob. Perhaps Italy Venciano? How cute. He could pick out that wild flick of red-brown hair through the sad, slow storm; and there was Romano; and behind him, Austria; slump-shouldered and lovely and still.

Austria may have hated him; but at least he had the decency to show up.

He chuckled to himself; called his bird to his shoulder. Gilbird fluttered over; settled himself there; fluffed up his damp feathers, and began to preen.

Prussia had tried his best with Austria. He had tried and he had tried.

Stupid aristocrat.

It was fairly disheartening, though, Prussia admitted to himself, reluctantly, gazing through the rain at the back of that shining head of dark hair, that motionless, drooping spine, those slender, gorgeous fingers curled ineffectively around the handle of his sissy umbrella, that the one person he would possibly think about maybe considering being in a relationship with (having regular sex with, he corrected himself, hastily, red-faced) was, a) a stuck-up, prissy-pants aristocrat, b) one of your best friends' ex-spouses (though Spain, whenever Prussia asked, in the smoothest, subtlest way possible, had just shrugged, and said, "but, mi amigo, it was, you know – political. I mean, we hardly saw each other, you know? He had a different bedroom to me! Besides," and at this point his eyes had taken on that stupid dreamy quality, "Roma is my one true love, si?" to which Prussia had replied, "you are so full of shit, Spain," and punched him on the arm for good measure.) And then there was, of course, point c) which was that Austria hated his guts. Prussia often thought that if he could just pound the object of his affections into a mattress hard enough, a) and b) would cease to matter, but point c), admittedly, would take some doing. Prussia had tried his best on this front, by turning up at his house, listening whilst he played the piano, and joking around with him, but Austria, for some reason, always seemed to take offence, and turned intensely scarlet, and tried his hardest to make Prussia leave.

"One day," France had said, on multiple occasions, patting his back encouragingly, "one day, he will see sense, no?"

So Prussia kept at it, never stooping quite so low as to buy him flowers, or any of that dumb girly shit, but had yet to see results. Stupid, stupid Austria, who wasn't even that good looking, or fun, or talented on the piano, or good at baking, had no idea what he was missing out on.

Usually, such thoughts would irritate Prussia; set him pacing, or scribbling away furiously in his diary, or heading for the nearest supply of alcohol. But here, in quiet, wet, Sanssouci, where he had spent many a glorious summer's day in his prime – here, today, with Fritz close by, somewhere – and these people wasting the morning away huddled around a grave that would, he knew, remain empty for a long time yet – here – he felt calm. He felt happy. He laughed; and it felt good, so he laughed again, until he was all out of breath – and had to go and sit on the steps for a moment to recover, still sniggering occasionally.

And then, on the grass, on the long carpet of lawn before him, the minister stepped forth; and the crowd's soft, sad murmurs fell, and fell, and faded into silence. The human's robes and smart trousers began to fill with water.

"'I,'" said the man, in a dry, quavering voice (and it seemed that even the clergy were shaken by his apparent passing!) "'am the resurrection and the life,' says the Lord. 'Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.'"

Somebody sniffed, loudly.

The rain beat down, and Prussia saw the thin pages of the Holy Bible the minister clutched wearing down in the onslaught. The ink, he thought, would be running. The little minister closed the book; folded his hands over it, in front of him, and gazed solemnly about at the mass of soaking mourners surrounding him.

"Now – let us say a prayer for Gilbert."

Oh, dear Lord. This time, he couldn't help the loud bark of laughter that escaped his lips. It was too funny, really; and the constant thud of rain drops on the roof above him quashed the sound; pressed it away from the dark men and women assembled on the squelching lawns. His little yellow bird squatted down upon his shoulder; tucking its spindly legs beneath that round, beating body, settling down to enjoy the show.

Out in the wet, in the grey mist formed by needle-sharp downpour, the congregation pressed their hands together; looked down at the ground; at the liquid ground, rising up to seize their feet.

A pause.

"Lord," began the minister, "in weakness or in strength we bear your image. We pray for those we love who now live in a land of shadows," (and here there was a choking noise; a pained, pathetic crack) "where the light of memory is dimmed, where the familiar lies unknown, where the beloved become as strangers. Hold them in your everlasting arms, and grant to those who care a strength to serve, a patience to preserve, a love to last and a peace that passes human understanding. Hold us in your everlasting arms, today and for all eternity; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

And they said amen, too; and South Italy crossed himself.

Prussia copied them mockingly, and snorted again, grinning as he got to his feet and leaned over the white, wet fencing. His arms, folded before him, supporting his chest, were bruised, only slightly; and the skin was just a little torn. Perhaps, he thought, if this spectacle continued, he would crack a rib. He could say it was from the crash. He did his utmost to stifle the burgeoning laughter in his throat and stomach.

The minister held the quiet a moment longer; then caught somebody's eye, in the audience before him; and moved aside. The hems of his black trousers caught in the sodden ground; swelled with water.

And Prussia thought about his brother's car, mangled; and about the long journey home; and the bank heist, and the escaped penguins, and the mafia, again, though with delight and a spinning head this time; and then, from the terrace, he looked out over the dull black and the froofy lace, and the picture of himself, spotted with downpour, and the oblivious backs of his fellows, and he cackled, because, really...

They actually thought that _he_, the awesome Prussia, had _died._

* * *

><p><em>AN: The prayer ("Lord, in weakness or in strength...") is one I found online. I haven't been to Church since I was about eleven years old, so I wasn't confident enough to write my own prayer, nor was I certain of what sort of prayer would be read at a funeral, and I wanted to make it a religious service, given as Prussia (the character) was originally Teutonic Knights, so I hopped onto Google for that :P_


	2. Chapter 2

The rain thickened and slanted.

From his spot on the terrace, Prussia smiled, watching as the still, stern backs of the nations closest to him slowly became pitted with silver marks of downpour. They seemed to sway, to heave in the rain under the strain of ordeal. It was hard to imagine, Prussia thought slowly, grinning mirthfully to himself (they thought he was _dead!_), how, exactly, they would go on without him there.

They almost did, he thought, against his better judgment, and though his spine twitched and his shoulders tensed at that sudden, unwelcome thought, he was powerless to halt the rushing onslaught of painful memories.

He remembered standing in a grey, nondescript room, cool from the air whimpering in through hair-thin cracks in the brickwork and the floorboards, holding a plastic telephone to his face. His brother, on the other end of that quivering line, was just a few walls, and a small stack of papers containing a stable financial system and a new, convertible, internationally reputable currency, away from him. He had stared at the chips in the paint, and the cracks in the walls, and he remembered how the cracks in his own body had begun to form about one year before this. He remembered waking in the middle of the night, drenched in an ice-cold sweat, panting, gulping down air as though his lungs were being opened for the first time in centuries. He remembered hearing from Russia, who was frightened and defensive, how Hungary's border fence had opened the path between herself and Austria, and how thousands upon thousands of his ensnared citizens had begun pouring into West Berlin, and his brother's waiting arms.

He remembered how the gaps between himself and Russia, and the rest of the world had expanded, stretching and cracking his body, tugging him by the guts and heartstrings, miles upon miles of tendon and sinew and veins back to his friends, his allies, his family.

And onwards and up, into the blinking white lights of death.

He remembered how throughout that summer, that hot, sticky summer that sat heavily upon his shoulders and passed in a blur, he shook. He remembered how he had slept less and less at night times, and instead tossed and turned for hours on end as he felt treaty after treaty, agreement after agreement being signed. He felt the dig and scratch of politicians' pens working beneath his very skin. He remembered knowing little of the outside world, save for what his brother told him on their phone calls, living beneath the vacant, childish gaze of Russia. Sometimes he had wondered if the other nation really understood what was actually happening, and there had even been moments when he had thought it all very cruel. Somebody, he had thought, should have considered poor lonely Russia before unifying Germany. But he couldn't say this, not with the machine already in motion, and so Russia went on living in blissful ignorance, whilst slowly, oh so slowly, Prussia felt his breaths shorten and his chest tighten.

He remembered his brother, over the telephone again, telling him how much Spain and France had missed him; how hard France had fought to see him freed, though his government had been against it.

He remembered thinking that France was an idiot. He was going to be free for one night; and then he would die.

He remembered being reunited with them all; he remembered how his brother looked so much older – or perhaps that was his eyes playing tricks on him – how he had grown into his bones, somewhat, and how his face was even more handsome than the last time they'd seen one another. He had felt a surge of brotherly pride – he'd shaped that, that strength and dignity, and then his little brother's mouth had trembled, ever so slightly, and they had embraced, stiffly, awkwardly, but he had felt how tightly Germany's fingers dug into his back, and they'd stood still, close together, for a long moment.

France and Spain had been there too, and the very second his brother had let go of him, half-smiling and somehow diminished, they'd fallen upon him like over-excited dogs, calling his name through laughter and tears, speaking in three different languages all at once, and he had hugged them back, his best friends, the ones who had stood with him since the beginning, a jumble of arms, and Francis had kissed his cheeks, and Antonio, the idiot, had _prayed, _and they could not stop laughing, though he didn't know why, but it felt –

It had felt good.

He had felt better, lighter, warmer, happier.

Then they had drawn back from each other, in their tight circle, and Francis had swooped in for one final kiss, and Antonio, the daft bastard, had cried – cried! – and...and...

And Prussia blinked, hard, repeatedly, because something was fucking stuck in his eye; and he banged his head, not too hard, against one of the wet, wooden supports along the terrace.

"Stupid," he muttered, sniffing a bit, because he was fucking wet and cold, that was all; and Gilbird whistled up at him.

He blinked again, rapidly, as though it would clear his head – and he thought instead of how he _hadn't _died, how he'd been so awesome he had fucking _conquered death! _And how stinking drunk they'd gotten to celebrate –

He laughed, and then he laughed again, because he was awesome; and how could anyone _ever _be so dumb as to believe that _he, _the great Prussia, could ever receive so much as a _scratch _from a _car crash? _No, that couldn't happen to _him_, no, no, no, no, no.

The lump of mourners out there in the garden moved a little; Prussia caught a glimpse of the minister shifting, his white collar and neck stark and cold against his black shirt and jacket, and all the other dull suits and coats and dresses huddled around him.

A _funeral. _He laughed again, hardly having to force it this time, and he pictured his big reveal at the end, when he would spring forth from the terrace, with a wild war-cry, just like he'd done back in the good old days, Gilbird swooping majestically at his side. Everyone would sob with joy, he thought, probably, and throw themselves at his feet, and kiss his boots, and he would grab that prissy-pants Austria, and throw him over one strong, manly shoulder, and Austria would moan with pure desire, and beg for Prussia to take him, there and then, because his awesomeness made him hot...

Yeah. That's probably what would happen, he thought, and tried not to think about how Austria scowled and turned his fine nose up whenever he laid eyes on him.

No, there was no way Austria would say no.

Prussia sniggered once more, and the chill that had set in at those earlier, unnerving thoughts was shaken anxiously off. Honestly. Of course he couldn't die! How would these pansies deal with life without him? He grinned widely, and folded his arms upon the wooden rail.

The sad, quiet gathering shifted a little as one sodden entity, swirling the cool, heavy air, and Prussia saw two figures step forth from the crowd to replace the solemn minister. One of them held a large, black umbrella. It was shaking and shuddering in a distraught grip; and the other had to reach out once or twice to steady it. Prussia squinted across the sodden grass; pursing his lips as he strained to make out the figures; one was elegantly dressed, in an incredibly expensive-looking three-piece suit, all black, save for a thin, crimson tie cutting a slice down the centre of his chest; the other's outfit was a little rumpled, a little tired, a little creased from sobs. They turned together as they reached his painting – and Prussia saw at once who it was.

France and Spain. France and Spain, pale and drawn and wet and absolutely distraught.

Christ on a bike, they were going to have some laughs later! He felt sharp, disbelieving chokes of amusement beginning to rise up in his throat again; and had to clap a hand to his mouth in order to silence himself, though his shoulders continued to jump with mirth.

"Uh...hello..." said Spain. His long, lanky body looked bowed in the cloudburst, bent out of shape like a brown willow tree twisted beneath a deluge. It was hard to see through the fat needles of rainwater, but the skin beneath his hazel eyes was purple and grey and green with exhaustion.

Prussia snorted, biting down on his lip. This was too much!

Spain, blinking slowly, lips fattened with sadness, fiddled with the old golden crucifix dangling from a thin chain around his neck for a moment.

France stepped forwards, one hand on his friend's elbow. "We...chose to read a...poem," he said, as though it was a great effort to speak these words. "We 'ope...it brings...some comfort." He paused. "I feel it..._we_ feel...it sums up our dear – dear friend quite well."

Spain silently nodded.

Prussia wondered if it was possible to die of laughter.

"Out of the night that covers me," France began, "Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul." He swallowed, and pressed his lips together.

Spain stepped forth, his eyes affixed on the ground. "In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud." He stopped, and drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "Under the bludgeoning of chance, my head is bloody, b-but unbowed."

"Beyond this place of wrath and tears," France continued, a little louder, "Looms but the horror of the shade, and yet the menace of the years finds, and shall find me unafraid." A tear slid down his cheek; but he turned his chin up; and would not look towards the earth in sadness.

Prussia watched the pair of them in silence. The laughter within him had subsided, somewhat.

"It m-matters not how strait th-the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the...c-captain of my soul..." Spain was openly weeping now. France lifted an arm; laid it across his shoulder.

A couple of other people seemed to have started crying, too. Sudden, quick intakes of breath fattened with rainwater; heads fell forward, and once Prussia saw a pale, unidentified hand move upwards to wipe away a thin tear from an unseen face.

Spain crouched down, knees shaking, and retrieved something from the wet ground. Prussia could not see past the thick black shroud of mourners; but when Spain stood upright again; and turned away, turned to face his damp portrait, he caught a glimpse of flowers; a huge bunch of them, pale purple and pink and yellow and white, and few slipping and sliding between tones. And then in the centre was a different flower; just one. A huge deep blue cornflower, surrounded by soft pastels, fully open, standing strong-stemmed and upright beneath the onslaught of rain drops.

France reached into his pocket, and withdrew a long black and white satin ribbon, then moved closer to Spain. As one, the two of them turned, pressed the bouquet of flowers to the stand where his picture, protected by a thin sheet of glass rested, and together they slowly, carefully tied the flowers with that long ribbon to one side of the wooden stand.

Prussia stood still on the terrace, watching.

Gilbird hopped down onto his hand, twitching his soft little head from his master's face to the damp lawns sprawled out sadly before them.

France and Spain moved slowly away from the flowers which now shuddered with rain, and the spotted portrait, and melted silently, jadedly into the dark crowd. France stood very stiffly between Spain and what's-his-face, the guy who looked like a wimpier version of America. Canada, was it? A figure with dark hair and a single wild curl touched Spain, very briefly, on the arm; in response, Spain dropped his head onto the other's shoulder, and closed his eyes.

Prussia swallowed; linking his fingers together and squeezing his own hands.

It was funny. It was really funny.

He laughed, quickly, quietly, and ran one white finger down Gilbird's yellow back.

And a little way in front of him, on the miserable grass, France and Spain's faces grew wet and glazed and empty, and the umbrellas continued to tremble, and dark puddles began to blossom like bruises on top of the thick, saturated grass.

_A/N: The poem is not mine; it is called _Invictus, _and was written by an English poet named William Ernest Henley._

_Thank you for all your lovely comments and messages! I do try to reply to them all, so don't hesitate to send me a review or message if there's anything you'd like to ask :) Oh, and because there seems to be some confusion, I'd like to add that there will be seven chapters of this in total. _


	3. Chapter 3

At Sansoucci, the rain continued to pour, and the thunder rumbled, distant and weak against the sodden iron-grey clouds. The air was still – utterly still – and it was warm, and yet cold, somehow, and the rain soaked the wooden terrace, and clogged Prussia's jeans.

The umbrellas and the thick wall of dark coats shivered, and shiny black feet shifted, sinking a little deeper into the soft, squelching earth. The air was heavy, and scented, pungent on Prussia's tongue. A white slip of skin caught his eye; and something inside his chest jumped frighteningly as he recognised, somehow, at a thick distance, the delicate hand of Austria, sliding upwards to tuck stray, damp hairs behind the pink shell of his ear...and as that beautiful, poncy, stupid head cocked and turned with this motion, Prussia caught a glimpse of rain-lashed spectacles, and shining pale lips.

He had been a child, really, when he first met Austria. A demonic child with far more energy than he knew what to do with; a child who was raised in the company of adult men, a child who had held a sword before he shook a rattle, and screamed battle cries rather than laughter, a child who could recall passages from the Bible with far more ease than he could simple rhyming songs – but a child, nonetheless. Later, much later, he forgot how and why and where he actually met the odd, violet eyed boy, who regarded him coolly with his pointy little chin up in the air; but nevertheless he remembered the meeting as clearly as he could look down and examine the pores on the back of his own hand.

"I'm Teuton," he remembered saying, loudly, to cover up for any nerves he may have felt. (He hadn't, of course, because he was awesome.)

The other boy, smaller and slighter than he was, but with an unusual composure about him – he did not bob on the balls of his feet as the knights who milled around Prussia did; nor did his eyes flicker; and his hand did not hover above his hip; he didn't even carry a sword! – nodded, slowly, casting a cautious gaze from his face to his feet, then said, "Osterrîchi," and nodded again, stiffly.

They had regarded one another, awkwardly, for a moment, then, to ease the tension that was building, Prussia had offered to show Austria his pet frog. Austria had turned pale, and Prussia had cackled, and teased him, and threatened to put the slimy creature down his shirt whilst he slept.

They had spent about a week together – Prussia could remember that – and at the end, when the horses were assembled outside's Austria's house once more, and his men were calling for him to hurry along, he'd turned to the smaller boy, and grinned, and said, "Goodbye, big baby."

"Farewell, ugly fool," said Austria, without missing a beat, and in that brief, life-changing moment when Prussia felt his stomach do something very strange he didn't think it had ever done before, Austria took a step closer, twisting his disgustingly clean fingers together, and murmured, "I, um...hope you come back soon."

Prussia hadn't quite known what to say to that – and really, his insides were in turmoil, and he couldn't have that when he was about to get on a horse and gallop heroically over the horizon...so he did the only thing he _could _conceivably do in such a situation, and pushed his new friend into the nearest puddle of mud, turned on his heel, and ran.

* * *

><p>He was still a child, or thereabouts, on that chilly winter evening when he slid into his grandfather's house, and found him lying on his back, in that sparse straw bed, coughing up his lungs, and doing nothing whatsoever to resist the incoming spectre. He didn't know what to do in such a situation, and so he simply pulled his little brother to his side, and sat, quietly, and waited.<p>

Holy Rome fidgeted, just slightly too young to understand the grey colour on the old man's flat cheeks; the flecks of wet red upon his blue lips. He squirmed and struggled in Prussia's arms, and flailed his fat little hands towards his grandfather, whining some nonsense about wanting to be closer to him.

Prussia hissed, and said: "_Römisches!" _because he wanted to help, and he wanted it to be quiet, and calm, and lovely for the poor thing his family had been reduced to, loose and trembling upon the bed –

But Germania coughed again, even louder, and tried to raise himself on one elbow, and allowed Holy Rome to crawl up there beside him. And then he scowled at Prussia, as though _he'd _done something wrong, and murmured, "Don't do that, Teuton..."

So Prussia said nothing, but he tilted his chin up, and set it fast there, and balled his hands into small white fists.

Holy Rome had made a quiet, contented sound, and nestled down beside Germania, wrapping the old man's long, wheat-coloured hair around his stubby little fingers. A few strands of it drifted away onto the mattress.

Germania's eyes closed then, for a little while – and Holy Rome's did too, heavily, like a baby's, and his breathing evened out – and when, at last, Germania's tired eyes opened once more, and flickered over to his older grandson, perched upon his small wooden stool, Prussia, too, was almost gone.

Waxy in the sad candlelight, Germania had opened his mouth to say something – and then his eyelids had fallen one final time – and Prussia was left with that skinny corpse wrapped around his brother, and his beloved guardian's last words ringing in his ears and stinging his red-rimmed eyes.

* * *

><p>The night before Austria married Spain, Prussia went to see him. Prussia had been strong, then; growing, bulking, his muscles attained from constant conquest and warfare and prayer caught up almost entirely with his bones. Austria didn't fight; he was slight, and lanky, not quite grown into his adult body, and yet he still managed to look absolutely stunning.<p>

Prussia wanted to kill something.

"What are you doing here?" Austria had said, his voice catching on some barb deep within his throat, and Prussia had snarled, and shrugged, and paced, and Austria had asked him again.

When he had finally been able to answer, what he had wanted to say was snatched from his tongue, and in its place the changeling was cruel and venomous.

"I came to wish you and Spain all the best. I hear he's a great fuck and I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time with him."

Austria had blushed, right to the roots of his hair, and Prussia had derived some kind of twisted satisfaction from the sudden, accidentally acquired knowledge that the other man was still a virgin. He could have knocked him back, there and then, against the wall, and taken what he desired, the way some of his men would occasionally do with those dark infidel women after a particularly long dry spell – but he didn't. He cared too much, and too little, and he didn't really know _what _he wanted; so he had spun around on the spot, and made to march from the room, his sword clanking loudly at his side in the cavernous hallway.

"Wait."

He'd stopped at once, and was disgusted by himself.

"I –"

There was a tremor there, barely concealed in that voice that was usually so calm and composed and smooth, and it set his heart fluttering.

"I – I –"

"Stuff and nonsense," he'd said before the other could finish, and he'd continued on his way, wincing when Austria's loud, frightened sob had echoed down the passageway behind him. He had not turned back.

* * *

><p>"I'm trying, brother!"<p>

"Not hard enough!" Prussia had cackled, and lunged forwards, sword flashing, and dashed his little brother from his feet for what must have been the fifteenth time that day; that hot summer day that plastered his clothes to his back and chest and armpits, and squeezed the smaller boy's round face until it gleamed scarlet beneath the high, bright sun.

Holy Rome scowled furiously as he picked himself up off the ground, raising one pudgy hand to push his blond hair away from his eyes. His bottom lip stuck out just a little further than his upper.

"Oooh," said Prussia, teasingly, and he'd swung his broadsword from side to side a few times, impressively, "I hope that's not a pout, little Römisches!"

Holy Rome's scowl intensified. "I'm not _pouting_!" he snapped, and his lip stuck out even further.

Prussia laughed again. "Oh, yes you are."

It was hot; all down his spine; down his neck. He rubbed a roughly-gloved hand across his forehead, breathed out hard, and spat onto the grass.

"Don't be such a baby."

His brother's lips tightened, and his chin trembled. "Stop it!"

"Give it up, Römisches. Come – try again."

"It's too hot." Holy Rome let his sword fall. He pulled his own tiny gloves off, and rubbed his sticky eyelids. "I'm tired. I want to go home."

"Can't say that in the middle of a battle." Prussia swished his sword again, grimacing with tortured pleasure at the sweat that continued to bead at his hairline, and creep over his temples. "Can't give up then. Never –"

"I'm _tired, _Prussia!" That voice was dangerously close to a whine.

It irritated Prussia; and so he furrowed his brow, tipped back his head to the open sky, and closed his eyes against the burning whiteness.

"Stop whinging."

Holy Rome had stamped his little foot. Prussia heard it, soft and laughable against the thick grass. His eyes had still been closed, and his head still tilted back when he felt that small, hot fist slam into his left kneecap.

"Hey!" His hand flew downwards. "Stop that, you br–"

"I hate you, Prussia!" Holy Rome had said, stamping his small, booted foot once again. "Why do you have to be so mean?"

"Because I'm your brother," Prussia said, and he did not smile any more. It wasn't _fair – _

"I wish you weren't."

Prussia had gazed into the sky, tracing the trembling path of a bird in flight beyond the green treetops, and beyond the clouds, until it faded, and he could see no more; and then he'd turned, wordlessly, and set off home. He looked behind, once, to see if his brother was following; but he had already gone. Prussia was all alone.

* * *

><p>"The servant girl?"<p>

He wasn't sure why he'd called her that – she used to be his good friend, after all – until she started wearing dresses, and listening to that stupid, stupid piano.

"It's for the best." Austria spoke the words as though they were rehearsed. Knowing him, they probably were.

He'd snorted, and told Austria that Maria would be better off marrying Frederick.

"Why," said Austria, and it wasn't a question. "Why, do you wish to be married?"

He didn't. He did.

He'd considered drawing his sword.

He hadn't.

"There's nothing that can be done about it," said Austria, and he'd turned away, and looked out of the wide window, over the darkening lawns. He stood very still; his back and shoulders were tight; and his hands, in their soft white gloves were curled into fists. Prussia watched him; watched every twitch in his coat; every jerk of his chest. He hated him – hated his prissiness, his haughtiness, the way he sniffed and turned his nose up every time their gazes crossed, his piano, his violin, the way he buckled his shoes (or had some unfortunate valet do it for him.) He hated him so much he wanted to kiss him.

Then Austria spoke again; and Prussia's eyes affixed on the melting orange sunset beyond the still, cream-coloured curtains; fixed, and stayed there, stayed until everything blurred. "I suggest...I suggest you l-leave. You know how they –" And he'd broken off. And Prussia had remained silent.

The curtains still glowed, and did not care.

Austria turned slowly towards him. His face was grave, and his eyes were full of pain, and his lips were set in a hard, sad line; but Prussia refused to take notice.

"Prussia –"

"Very well," he'd said, and bowed, stiffly, trying not to scream and rail against the injustice of – of everything. "Good evening, young master."

He turned; laid a hand upon the golden door knob, and the other man had inhaled sharply behind him; closer than he had been before.

"Prussia, I – I lo–"

He'd left, slamming the door behind him, staircases and doors and corridors smearing like spoilt paintings across his eyes, and when he was outside, stumbling over the creaking gravel, his breaths catching and twisting in his chest and throat, he'd heard a howl of hatred from high above, and he'd looked up, and seen Austria leaning over one of his many handsome white balconies.

"I hate you, Prussia!" he'd screamed. "I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!"

He had shouted nothing back.

* * *

><p>France looked pale and tired, and his hair was tangled, and his eyes were bathed in purple shade. He put an elegant, long-fingered hand to his creased brow, and rubbed until it turned to soft red.<p>

"You didn't tell me," said Prussia, and his jaw hurt. "_You didn't tell me."_

"Prussia, I –"

"My brother," he said, and he could still hear, years and years later, the scrape and bang of his own vocal chords. "My baby brother, and you didn't tell me?"

"Prussia –"

"I thought he was dead!" he snarled, and his hands had shook – gaped through air for a weapon to brandish. "I thought he was dead! My brother –"

"My friend, I never –"

"You took him!" he had cried, and, years later, on that wet terrace, Prussia still shook when he remembered. "You took him and hid him, and you never said a word! All those times – I – you _took_ him!"

France had gazed back, sad and weary, and dirty, for some reason; sticky with sweat and casual grime, and tears, probably, and his hands had touched his forehead once more – and then his shoulders had lost hope, and fallen down – and he murmured, "You will take him back, of course."

Prussia had spat and cursed and screamed that of course he would, of course he would take him, he was his brother, his big brother, he would protect him, he would _always _be there, _always –_

And when he had come out, from behind one of France's elegant gold doors, dressed all in white, even-footed and clean, and not a day older than he had been that grey-skied afternoon on the blood-swept battlefield, he had almost sobbed with relief. And when the boy had clung to France, and shook his head, and whimpered about not wanting to leave, and eyed Prussia suspiciously through tears and a neatly-combed fringe, and France had held him back, and stroked his shoulders, and kissed his crown, he _had_ sobbed, for quite a different reason.

* * *

><p>He remembered standing back, by a wide, wide window, beside his brother.<p>

"You're wrong, Germany." He paused, letting that sentence hang there, testing the waters. Germany said nothing; remained still and stiff-backed. "You're wrong about him."

Germany didn't even bother to acknowledge his words. His still neck and his clasped hands and his unflickering blue eyes, though, spoke volumes.

You're wrong, Prussia.

You're wrong.

What do you know of it, anyhow?

You are wrong.

"Don't trust him," he'd murmured.

And Germany had turned to look at him; cast his gaze impassively up and down his body, thinner, weaker, now, than his own – and said, slowly, "Thank you for your advice." And then he'd turned back to the window, to the cheering and singing and quaking banners outside.

"You don't care," Prussia said, and Germany rolled his eyes.

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry."<p>

Austria watched him mutely from his wheelchair, knuckles and cheeks pale, eyes hooded.

"I'm sorry. My brother is –"

"Not in his right mind," said Austria. "I know." He looked to the piano; to the bookshelves; to the curtains, drawn against the red light of sunset. "At least it's over now."

"Yes."

They did not speak, for a long while; and then Prussia said, "I have to go and live with Russia."

Austria flinched.

"It's my – punishment."

It took a long time for Austria to answer. When he did, his voice was hoarse and tired. "When?"

"Tomorrow."

"That soon?"

"I'm sorry."

He didn't know why he kept apologising. Maybe for everything he'd ever done. Perhaps he should go on a pilgrimage, again. He hadn't done that in a long time. But then, one did not walk to Jerusalem in one cool, smoky night.

"Prussia," said Austria, at last, but Prussia hardly heard him. He could not stay. He had to go, before he did something stupid. He would die if he did not go with Russia; and that pathetic slip of his land, his culture, his people, his song and his spirit, wrecked and ruined as it was, would be carved out of the flesh of his brother.

"I have to go now –"

"Stay –"

"I have to – get _off, _you stupid aristocrat!"

It was a weak insult; but Austria dropped his arm, and looked away.

"Get out, then," he said, and as Prussia closed the door to the old, sad manor house behind him, he heard a cry of, "You _never _listen!"

This was becoming far too familiar.

* * *

><p>And back, now, above the streaked lawns of Sanssouci, Prussia sat down on the waterlogged steps, and examined his wet feet. He felt chilly, all of a sudden, which wasn't awesome – and kind of sad, which was doubly so – and really, really lame for actually feeling this way.<p>

He told Gilbird this; but Gilbird had nothing to say on the matter.

On the grass, the umbrellas shifted.

Italy Veneziano appeared at the side of his rain-spotted portrait; hands clasped before him, looking very sombre. Around his neck, Prussia spied a small, gold crucifix on a thin chain, similar to Spain's.

"Goodbye, Pru– Gilbert," Italy said, softly, and licked his lips a little. "I'll miss you very, very much. You were really awesome. It makes me – very sad to think we won't be able to hang out ever again. I miss you, a lot." He stood there a moment; then moved away.

And Prussia looked down at his shoes again.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks so much for the lovely reviews! They mean so much to me, I love to know what you think of my writing :D I'll try to finish reworking the next chapter over the next couple of days and upload it.<em>


	4. Chapter 4

Italy's words, pale and trembling, gossamer-thin, touched his ears, reverberated – just – lightly – and he seized upon them, turned them over and over and over, while the images of his grandfather and his brother and France and Austria – _Austria – _all disgusted and furious with him, ticked behind his fallen, sticky eyelids like an old reel of film.

"I'll miss you very, very much. You were really awesome. It makes me – very sad to think we won't be able to hang out ever again. I miss you, a lot."

He tried to paste them there, beside his ear drum. He moved his lips, slowly, clumsily, in time with the reverberation. He thought of the poem, too – of France and Spain's poem – and clenched and relaxed his fists to the beat of the faintly recalled words, which stumbled and fell and jumbled and lurched – but he could still see their tears through the rain, and their shaking hands, and the bouquet, and that big blue cornflower, and _everything_, the whole dark gathering beneath him on the wet grass, and the portrait covered in raindrops that crept like small insects down the glass. And the prayer and the poem and the little speech from Italy Veneziano bled like watercolours until he didn't know what he felt any more.

His head was very heavy, and his neck ached. He turned slowly, still sat upon the damp wood of the terrace with his bird perched on his wrist, and looked out towards the funeral on the lawn. He could not quite see everybody clearly – not without shifting his position somewhat – but he was cold, and stiff, and exhausted, suddenly, which was beyond lame – so he remained where he was, catching the slow, round-shouldered figures clustered silently around his obscured portrait between the wet leaves of a bush planted close to where he sat, which twitched and bounced as droplets of rain dripped systematically from its flowers and stems, plinking rhythmically against the dark soil below.

One figure, slender and straight-backed and proud, with wide, confident strides stepped out of the mournful huddle, and came to stand beside Prussia's portrait, where the short minister with the thick, round glasses had stood; and then France and Spain, and Italy after them.

Prussia squinted at them through the steady sheet of rain which breathed and washed over the whole of Sanssouci. The figure held an umbrella in one hand, and a couple of slightly crumpled sheets of white printer paper in the other. Between the dripping leaves, Prussia saw long, light brown hair tied back in a respectable bun. Hungary, he thought, and felt mildly surprised. If he'd had to guess, he would have pegged her as the one who would giggle and press a hand over her mouth upon hearing of his death. Bitterly, he supposed that there was still time for her to crow at her victory.

"Bitch," he said to Gilbird, jerking his head in the woman's direction. "Thinks she's so good, thinks she's going to get Priss all to herself, just wait 'til I –"

"Gilbert and I," Hungary was saying, glancing between her pieces of paper and the black crowd who were, by this point, thoroughly soaked, and utterly miserable, "as I'm sure you all know, didn't really get on very well." She was not crying; but seemed to take a moment to gather herself before pressing on. "Although, as young children, we were pretty close – you could even have gone so far as to call us friends – as soon as he worked out that I was, in fact, female, I no longer held any interest whatsoever for him; and whenever our paths happened to cross after that, we would inevitably find ourselves arguing about – well...usually nothing." She smiled weakly.

A couple of people gave soft, polite coughs of laughter.

Prussia tore his gaze away from the funeral, and focused instead upon an old spider's web, shuddering under the tender weight of several water droplets that clung to its feathery limbs, stretched between the brick wall of the palace, and one of the terrace's cold, white columns.

He heard Hungary inhale slowly, carefully, a little way off, down upon the lawn. The sound, he told himself, firmly, carried so well because the day was so still, and so quiet. He didn't pay any attention to what she was saying, obviously – and he told Gilbird this. Gilbird cheeped in approval, and hopped down onto his master's right kneecap.

"But I wanted to make this short speech because no matter what he thought of me – and I know he didn't think very highly of me at all – he was still a good person. A very good person." She took a deep breath. "He was loyal, and brave, and lively, and steadfast...and perhaps these are not the qualities that first spring to mind when we think of Gilbert –" and here she smiled, somewhat bashfully; he could hear the reluctant, embarrassed lift of her cheeks in her voice, though he still refused to turn, and his eyes remained affixed firmly upon the shimmering cobweb above him; the cobweb he could no longer see "– in fact, I can think of several more choice words all of us have used, at some point in time, to describe Gilbert Beilschmidt – but they should be. I want everybody to remember how proud he's always been of his brother. I want everybody to remember how much he loved his friends. I want everyone to remember his sense of humour, and his bravery, and his enthusiasm and optimism and spirit."

By this point, Prussia's jaw was far closer to the ground than it had ever been in his life. He closed his mouth, slowly, and swallowed. Behind him, he heard Hungary inhale deeply, steadying herself once again.

"That – that is what I will try to remember, when I think of him. Perhaps – perhaps..." She trailed off, held the silence for a second – then collected herself, and continued. "I know that I didn't quite make peace with him before...before he left us...but I believe that smiling when we think about what a great person Gilbert really was is the way he'd have wanted us to say goodbye, and to honour his memory." She paused, thoughtfully. "And probably by building some kind of giant statue of him in the middle of Königsberg, too, though I'm not too sure about the logistics of that one."

More soft, muffled laughter.

Prussia sighed, heavily. His breath turned to smoky white before him, briefly, before billowing upwards and fading into nothing. He watched it, gnawing slowly on the inside of his cheek.

"Sorry, Gil," Hungary said, with half a laugh.

The fattened, heavy grass squeaked meekly, quietly behind him – and Prussia supposed that Hungary was moving back to her place in the crowd. Unable to stop himself, he twisted at the waist; looked through the leaves of the wet bush; through the wooden railings along the edge of the terrace. She was indeed back amongst the others; he saw her offer a small smile to somebody hidden by the dark bodies of their fellow mourners, before taking her place at Austria's side. The sissy aristocrat's back was towards him – and so he couldn't see the man's face – but his stomach lurched and fluttered a little (which was really gay) – when he saw Hungary touch her companion's elbow briefly, cautiously, before lowering her hand, and joining it with its partner in front of her stomach.

Prussia sighed, and readjusted himself so that he could study that straight, slender back – so beautifully elegant, even whilst being pelted with rain. Stupid Austria. Stupid, stupid Austria, who, probably at that very second, was wishing he was at home in his fancy manor house, playing his ridiculous piano, and eating his horrible cakes, and drinking Wiener Melange.

Stupid Austria, who shouldn't have even bothered to turn up if he was going to stand around with his little nose in the air, thinking things like that.

Stupid Austria, who, Prussia was certain, didn't give a damn about whether he was dead or alive one way or the other.

Stupid Austria, who had absolutely no idea how horribly, maddeningly, disgustingly in love with him Prussia was.

"Fuck," said Prussia, to Gilbird, wondering at what point he'd become such a fucking pussy.

With difficultly, and some reluctance, he dragged his gaze from the other man's back, and instead focused on the minister, who was struggling from the congregation in his dragging robes, the hem of his trousers covered in mud and catching beneath the heels of his shiny shoes. His umbrella swayed above him, and his glasses were smeared with rain.

"Now – let us sing a hymn," said the minister, and there was a lethargic murmur and shuffle as everybody tried to find a hymn sheet.

Prussia huffed, and scowled at his bird, who looked back up at him curiously, head cocked to the side.

The little crowd on the lawns began to sing. There was no musical accompaniment; and it was more than obvious that half of the people there didn't know the words, or the melody (or both) – but all of a sudden the sky was deepest burgundy above his head, and his horse was snorting and pawing beneath him (he liked horses with a bit of fire in them), and a little way ahead, England and France rode side-by-side, bickering quietly, and in front of _them, _Hungary rode with no reins, stretching her arms heavenwards, sighing as her sore back popped and stretched (poor horse, Prussia had thought, observing its heavy sweat. Hungary kept holding it back so she could gallop to catch up), and just behind him, on a handsome grey stallion, pale and sickly-looking in the unusual heat, was Austria, his hands tender and tentative on the reins.

_Fairest Lord Jesus, Ruler of all nature,_

_O Thou of God and man the Son,_

_Thee will I cherish, Thee will I honor,_

_Thou, my soul's glory, joy and crown._

_Fair are the meadows, fairer still the woodlands,_

_Robed in the blooming garb of spring;_

_Jesus is fairer, Jesus is purer,_

_Who makes the woeful heart to sing._

_Fair is the sunshine, fairer still the moonlight,_

_And all the twinkling starry host;_

_Jesus shines brighter, Jesus shines purer_

_Than all the angels heaven can boast._

_All fairest beauty, heavenly and earthly,_

_Wondrously, Jesus, is found in Thee;_

_None can be nearer, fairer or dearer,_

_Than Thou, my Savior, art to me._

_Beautiful Savior! Lord of all the nations!_

_Son of God and Son of Man!_

_Glory and honor, praise, adoration,_

_Now and forever more be Thine._

The black-garbed funeral attendees sang for his memory in the gardens of Sanssouci; and behind him, the armies who had come to the Holy Lands for him and his faith roared it as they pressed closer to Acre.

He remembered the way Austria's eyes had fallen and fixed upon him when he'd spurred his horse to a gallop, and raced across the sands to the approaching crusaders. He could have recognised those eyes from a mile off (because he had such awesome vision, of course.)

France and Hungary had stood up in their saddles, and waved, and called "Teuton!" and England, who was just reaching that gangly stage, and was terribly ugly, had nodded, and the men had cheered...and Austria had watched him, shoulders tight and mouth slightly open.

The hymn had continued all night, winding like a warm breeze between the tents – and together they had watched the walls of Acre.

"Richard's siege weaponry will bring it down," England had said, haughtily, and France had snorted, and asked why Richard spent so much time in _his_ country, and so little in England's land. He had then gone on to make some very vulgar comments about the nature of Richard and his own Philip's relationship – and it was at this point that England started yelling at him. The two of them, and Hungary, had left for their own tents shortly afterwards.

He remembered the way Austria had gazed vacantly into the fire before them. Austria had been the very first to arrive at Acre, he'd heard, along with Leopold, after Holy Rome's leader had died, and, along with most of his troops, the boy had turned around and gone home. Prussia had sent a very irritated letter to his brother about the importance of not laying down and quitting when he'd first found out. The time spent there was clearly taking its toll on Austria, who was tired, and thin, and obviously unaccustomed to spending so much time on the move, and fighting.

He could remember Austria's little hands – and his round cheeks – and that pointed chin – from so, so long ago. Austria was still small, but there was a shade of manhood there, in his straight cheekbones, and his long fingers.

"I was beginning to wonder when you'd get here," Austria had said, suddenly.

Back in Sanssouci, the words echoed in his head, fought through the pulsing rain.

"I had other things to deal with," Prussia had said. "King Guy –"

"I know." Austria fiddled with a loose thread on his cloak. "I – I am glad you are here now, Teuton." He had looked up. The fire had flickered in his large, violet eyes, and across his lovely face.

He remembered feeling slightly lost, and scared, and excited all at once, without really knowing why. He had been such a child, he thought.

"You know so much about war," Austria had continued, quietly. He had looked down at his worn boots. His face was a little red. "You all do – but especially you." Prussia had watched him furtively. "You must...you must think very little of me, just swanning in with my Duke and taking your brother's troops...as though I know what I am doing." He smiled, wryly, and looked up at Prussia.

"I – I – uh...I mean, it's, uh...yes. You don't...you don't really. It'll be fine," he managed, eventually, and, on the terrace, Prussia rubbed a hand over his face, and wished that he was able to throttle his younger self. "I mean...I'll...I'm here now. I can help you." He'd looked up at the stars, and the moon then, hoping the cooler air, away from the fire, would settle his burning cheeks.

Austria had gazed at him a moment longer, then shuffled a little closer, across the sand, and murmured, "Alright. You can be my knight."

Prussia had thought that his head might explode.

"Thank you, Teuton," Austria had whispered, and leaned over – just a little bit closer – and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. "Thank you."

He remembered staying there at the fireside, long after Austria was gone, his fingertips disbelievingly patting the spot that the other boy had kissed.

And back in Sanssouci, listening to the hymn fade away, and paper crinkling, and rain falling above his head, he did the same thing, with eyes half-shut, fancying that he could still feel the hot lick of the fire; and the scratch of the sand and dry, stubborn grass against his legs and the palms of his hands; and the warm tickle of nervous breath against his sweaty skin; and the brush of damp, tangled brown hair; and the cool tip of a slender nose; and the softness of beautiful, perfectly crafted lips whose ghost he had held onto for the past eight hundred and twenty years.

He glanced out towards the funeral again – examined that lovely, rigid back – and thought about them all; how they'd come to fight for him, and for God – and how they'd all come to sing for him now, and make soppy speeches, and read poems and things – and he smiled.

And he wondered if Austria was also thinking about their history.

And he wondered if Austria remembered that kiss.

* * *

><p><em>The featured hymn is known as <em>Fairest Lord Jesus _and _Crusader's Hymn, _and was, according to some accounts, sung by German crusaders as they made their way towards Jerusalem, the Holy Land. In German, it is known as _Schönster Herr Jesu.

_The crusade depicted is the Third Crusade, which took place between 1189 and 1192, and, though it was largely successful, the Christian crusaders failed to recapture Jeruslam. Instead, a treaty was signed between King Richard I of England, and Saladin, Sultan of Egypt and Syria, stating that though Jerusalem was to remain under Muslim control, Christian pilgrims and traders would be permitted to visit the city._

_Thanks again for your wonderful comments and messages :D I really appreciate them, and I'm glad you like the story!_


	5. Chapter 5

At last the singing ended, and the sky above was once more heavy, pouring marble instead of wine-red with slaughter and Christian victory, and the people on the lawn below were his mourning friends and acquaintances rather than hot-blooded soldiers come to fight for him and for their own atonement. Prussia remained sat on the cold floor of the terrace, cross-legged, one eye roving slowly across the black crowd that stood almost directly behind him. He was chilled, and damp, and the others who did not see him, but soaked and sighed around his empty grave, were much the same. He wondered uninterestedly if they would call it a day soon, and make a dash for the palace, or their cars, before hurrying to the party that they would undoubtedly hold. They would drink, he thought, and soon their original purpose would be lost among swirls of alcohol and laughter and cigarette smoke, and he had just decided, firmly and with a great deal of pre-emptive irritation, that it would be _then _when he chose to reveal himself, vengeful and mighty (even when he would, he mused, bear more than a passing resemblance to a drowned rat), causing them all to fall to their knees in reverent terror – when he caught sight of somebody moving forth again, and his heart fell past his stomach and his thighs and his knees, and far, far below his toes.

The minister had stepped aside once more, and the crowd was utterly silent and still, and there, at the head of the mourners, shoulders hunkered down, with no speech written upon paper to aid him, was –

Lame, he thought, Lame, lame, lame, lame, _lame. _But his heart was racing, and his stupid, traitorous stomach was doing that completely unawesome thing it sometimes (always) did when Austria was in the general vicinity.

Why, he thought, trying to ignore the fact that, at the first sighting of the aristocrat stepping forth, his whole body had twisted one hundred and eighty degrees, his hands had flown upwards to grab the wooden railing, and he had leapt as if burned to his feet, Why the _fuck _was Austria up at the front? Austria hated him, _hated _him, he _knew _it. He was certain. He swore softly, under his breath, and Gilbird fluttered to the railing to join him.

"Fucking –" he said to his bird. "That fucking – pansy." If Little Miss Sissy ruined his funeral by playing the piano, or reading a wimpy poem about cakes or flowers or something...something _gay_ like that, he was going to –

"I'm...I'm not going to stand up here, and tell you all what a – what a wonderful, beautiful person Gilbert Beilschmidt was," Austria began, and...were those..._tearstains_ on his cheeks? Prussia's stomach did that damnable swooping thing again, and he swallowed, hard, "because I would have imagined you all know that already." He glared round the assembly with red-rimmed eyes, as if daring them all to disagree with him.

Prussia did not move. His breath was caught in his tightened throat, and his hands shook upon the wet rail. His knuckles were white and high, tearing through his skin.

"Instead, I want to talk about – about something small. One – one little thing he used to do that always stuck in my head and –" and suddenly he was mouthing words, and no sound was coming out, and if it hadn't just hit Prussia that Austria had called him _beautiful _he would have realised that Austria had actually started to cry. His brain went into a nose-dive, and for a few strange and difficult moments, he could not hear, or see, or feel or smell or taste a damn thing.

He blinked frantically, trying to regain his vision – and he swallowed in a weak effort to unblock his ears. Finally, Sanssouci, watery and shaking, swam back into view, and he heard Gilbird cheep close beside him, and Austria's quiet, unpleasantly posh voice was wavering towards his ears, and he wasn't trembling, oh fuck no, he wasn't wussing out. Austria, a little way off, was adjusting his glasses with long, quivering fingers, and saying:

"I want to talk about the way he always left his...dirty boots in the middle of my hallway." The bump in the centre of the other man's throat rose, and sank back down, slowly. "So many times – week after week, month after month, year after year – I would be in the music room, playing my piano, when I would hear a _thump _outside – just a quiet sound, barely audible, in fact. And week after week, month after month, year after year, as though I was surprised, and I didn't know what is was, I would lift my hands from the keyboard, and stand up, and go out, through the drawing room and into the hallway. The front door would be closed, as would the doors to the kitchen and the conservatory and the dining room. And every – every time, I would go and stand at the bottom of the stairs, and I would listen." Austria paused; swallowed again.

Prussia eyed the other man from his position upon the terrace. He looked paler than Prussia had ever seen him; his hair was soaked and tangled, plastered to his scalp, and the skin beneath his lovely – no, girly, _girly – _violet eyes was grey and sagging.

He looked exhausted.

He looked like a mess.

He looked like the most perfect thing Prussia had ever seen.

Oh, shit.

"And I would l-listen," Austria continued, his voice beginning to quaver slightly, "and – I would hear nothing. And then, I would turn around, and behind me, right in the middle of the floor – I would see a pair of brown leather lace-up boots, covered with mud, and the remnants of my flower beds, scuffed and scratched, just lying there – tossed onto the tiles, scattering little bits of dried-up dirt ev-everywhere.

"And so I would go to the kitchen, and into the broom cupboard, and I would get a dustpan and brush, and a sheet of old newspaper, and then I would go back to the hallway and sweep up the dirt, and throw it outside, and put the boots on the newspaper in the corner next to my front door. And – and I would do this ev-every time."

Prussia pressed his lips together, and stood still and stiff, leaning almost all of his weight upon the wooden railing before him. His spine was frozen.

Even from where he stood, he fancied that he saw Austria's lower lip trembling.

Austria closed his eyes, and composed himself, his fingertips ghosting across the lapels of his coat briefly, before continuing to speak.

"An-and so...so then I would...I would go back into the music room – and I would sit back down at my piano, and re-organize my sheets of music – and just as I laid my hands down upon the keys and began to play, Gilbert would pop up from behind the piano and grab my manuscripts and send them flying all over the floor." He chuckled softly; sadly. "And every time – every single time, week after week, month after month, year after year – l would slam down the lid, and turn to him, and yell, _What are you doing here? _And every time he'd just cackle, and sprawl over the piano, and steal my spectacles from my face."

Prussia bit down on the inside of his cheek. Austria's gaze fell for a second, and his lips twitched sadly.

"I would yell at him to get off my piano, and he would just look back at me with that big, insolent grin, and he wouldn't – he wouldn't move a muscle. And so then I'd stand up, and I'd grab hold of his arms, and try to pull him up, and he'd just...he'd just let himself go floppy, and sag down to the ground, and lie there, like a damn b-beached whale!"

Soft laughter. Despite himself, Prussia found the corner of his lips quirking upwards. Austria smiled too; then looked back down at his hands; caught the tip of his tongue between his teeth.

"So I'd give up; I couldn't move that – that s-silly lump an-anywhere...and I'd put my hands on my hips, and say, _What do you want this time, you fool? _And he'd laugh, and look up at me from the floor, and say, _You should be thanking me, Little Master – _he would always...always call me those...those r-ridiculous nicknames –_ you should be thanking me; I've made your...I've made your house t-ten times more awe-awesome just by being in it! _And I would say, _I know you, you're here because you're a freeloader, and you think that if you p-pester me long enough I'll f-feed you..._and then – and then he'd smile even more widely at me, and jump to his feet, and say, _Well, that's not _really _why I came, but i-if you're o-offering –"_

Austria stopped; raised one clenched fist; pressed it to his heart. His eyes were closed, Prussia thought, squinting through the incessantly vertical rain. He watched noiselessly.

"And – and then I'd do it. Week after week, month after month, year after year. I'd go to the kitchen, and I'd grumble about how I spent more money on stupid cakes for him than on feeding myself or – or maintaining the condition of my house...and I'd bake him those cakes, and he'd sit at the kitchen table, legs crossed, one – one elbow resting on the wood, and his chin in his hand – and watch me, and he wouldn't say anything; he'd...he'd just smile. Then I'd give him the damned cakes, and he – and he'd smirk, and make some smart comment about how he had my – my..." Austria blushed. "My – _vital regions_ – in the palm of his hand, and how I couldn't help but bow down to – to his...awe-awesomeness...and he'd let his little bird hop all over the table, and it was so – so unhygienic, but I – I never made him take it away – and then he'd leave the plate on the table, and not – not bother to clean up after himself – and he'd stroll out of the kitchen, and I'd chase after him, and – and shout at him to get out, and he'd just laugh at me, and pretend he was about to – to trip me over, or he'd pull my hair, or turn my glasses upside-down – and some-sometimes, he'd fall asleep on my sofa...or sit on the floor beside my piano and press the high C over and over again. And then eventually he'd take his boots and his bird, and he'd go outside, and slam the door – and leave."

Austria stopped, closing his eyes again. He seemed tired. Another small tear was slowly struggling down his pale cheek.

Prussia's front teeth made acquaintance with his lower lip, and pressed into it until a strong, metallic taste began to fill his mouth. He felt sick.

"And – week after week, month after month, year after year," Austria said, and his voice was so soft and breathy Prussia had to strain to hear it, "I would be playing my piano, and I would hear the thud from outside, and go out into the hallway to find those dirty leather boots – week after week, month after month, year after year." He paused; made a strange little choked sound. "And – and I thought they'd always be there."

Silence.

"I – I loved seeing those boots. And the dirt. And my manuscripts all over the music room floor. And the mess on my kitchen table. And – him." He paused, and, in a voice so soft Prussia almost thought it was nothing but a dream, added: "I miss him." He stood still, for a long moment; doing nothing to stop the tears now peeping out from beneath his glasses.

Prussia's hands were not shaking, because he was not overwhelmed with the sudden, frightening, thrilling, downright _painful _realisation that Austria might – _might_ – might just feel some kind of affection from him. And his breath was not frozen in his constricted lungs, because he hadn't noticed the tremble of Austria's wet, sadness-swollen red lips. And his jaw was definitely not shuddering, and if it was, it was because of the cold, hard rain, and not because of that lovely, breaking voice and that stupid speech which was a eulogy; not a confession, no, there was absolutely no chance of it being _that _sort of thing...

Austria's stricken face tilted skywards for a moment, and his grieving mouth opened, as though he hoped to breathe in the thick water that was pouring down upon him, upon the funeral, upon the palace and its gardens, and have it crush his windpipe which seemed to struggle still with half-hidden, long-suppressed sobs. And then he looked down again, down at his feet, at the solid, waterlogged earth, and his white hand rose to cover his mouth. His fingers strained, hard, and his glasses were finally so fogged up that Prussia could not see those well-known eyes beyond – but, unbidden, the image of dark brown lashes decked with round, crystalline tears came to him as he at long last looked away from _that stupid, beautiful aristocrat, _and down at the delicate stems and leaves of a lush green plant beneath the terrace, crawling with rainwater.

Gilbird whistled once, tilting his small, round head to one side as he peered curiously up at his master.

Prussia looked down at his companion, slowly. The bird cheeped again, and hopped onto one of his fingers, which were all still gripping the wooden railing along the front of the terrace as if for dear life. Very gradually, Prussia came to the realisation that such a firm hold rather hurt. He let go, half-expecting to see the wood splintering in the places he had touched. His little bird remained perched upon the index finger of his left hand.

A short way before the two of them, on the soaked lawn, Austria was moving back to his place in the crowd, almost limping, clearly exhausted. Prussia thought about every movement he'd ever seen the other man make – every slightly clumsy lunge with a sword he couldn't quite keep balanced...every elegant, whirling step in a ballroom he himself had felt hot and uncomfortable in...every sharp duck, tug at his horse's reins, every dodge in the heat of long-ago religious battles...every narrow-eyed glare he'd ever thrown Prussia's way...every fluid stroke of those fingers, of those willowy arms across the strings of a violin or the black and white keys of a piano...every toss of that beautiful head, strain of that slender, delicious body, every widening or gasp of those luscious lips he had yet to lay claim to but had pictured a thousand times over on a thousand nights, lonely and with some faceless conquest in a dark, heated bed...

He swore, yet again, and rubbed his eyes with the ends of his shaking fingers. Gilbird continued to eye him, as if considering his situation with mild amusement.

"It's..." Prussia began, haltingly. "It's...still hilarious...it's still – awesome – right, Gilbird?" he said managed, at last.

The bird just looked at him.

"Hmm," said Prussia. "I see..."

He looked back down towards the crowd. Austria looked to be buckling under the weight of the weather.

"Well, shit," said Prussia, and he tasted blood from his lip, and salt from his eye, and he leaned forwards, over the rail, and covered his face with his free hand. He was tired. "What the hell do I do now?"


	6. Chapter 6

Gilbird was, despite his supreme awesomeness and badassery – only a bird – and although Prussia had spent many a lazy afternoon (when nothing was going down on the internet and he couldn't think of any more movies he wanted to illegally download) attempting to teach his pet to talk like that brilliant swearing parrot he'd seen on TV once, he could not speak. And therefore Prussia's miserable and wholly desperate question: "Well, shit...what the hell do I do now?" went dishearteningly unanswered.

He turned away from the damp funeral, from the half-suppressed choked sobs on the waterlogged lawn, and pressed his back against one of the brick supports on the edge of the terrace. If he did that sissy (and frankly rather terrifying) thing – if he dared to screw his courage to the nearest reasonably secure object, and psyched himself up enough, and took a couple of bracing, deep breaths, and maybe pounded himself on the chest a couple of times whilst jogging on the spot – and looked, open-eyed and clear-minded into his heart of hearts...well, he knew what he would see. He had always known what he wanted, really, and if this stupid funeral had made him see that smoking hot, prissy, violet-eyed, gorgeous and inexplicably wonderful thing that he loved, unconditionally, and had always loved and would always love (it was a constant in his life, always had been; there was no escaping from that) well...he couldn't help it, could he? He supposed, half-dismally, half-enraptured, that even the most awesome people fell in love.

The thought hit him like an avalanche and he very nearly stumbled from the imaginary impact.

_In love._

It was an incomprehensibly vast and frightening concept, and although he knew – and had always known, really, albeit without those terrifying words properly, consciously occurring to him; _in love, in love, in love_ – that he, The Awesome Prussia, was most definitely, absolutely, positively, one-hundred-and-twenty-thousand-million-per-cent _in love _with the Republic of Austria, in that moment, when the funeral party was quiet and torn apart with misery behind him, he really, truly, wanted nothing more than to turn on his heel and run away as fast as he possibly could.

He didn't, of course, because that was pansy behaviour, and he was most definitely not a pansy. But still, he couldn't really bring himself to _do_ anything; to twitch a finger, to blink, to shift his legs or his spine, or unclench his fists, which had been like hard grey rocks ever since Austria's _stupid, wonderful _speech. He couldn't look around either, he couldn't bring himself to turn his head and peek anxiously over his right shoulder, over the sodden grass, over the men and women, his friends and relatives and acquaintances dressed in black and black and nothing else...and he most certainly couldn't bring himself to look at Austria.

His body jerked, quite suddenly, angrily. What the hell was he doing? He sighed noisily, irritably, and raised his hands to his face, scrubbing his nose and eyes and mouth and cheeks, hard. This was ridiculous! He was _Prussia! _He was strong, and brave, and...and awesome – of course he was – and he wasn't about to let a few silly little fluttery nerves dancing around in the very bottom of his stomach get the better of him.

He breathed in, and out again, slowly. He could do this. He could do this. It was beyond any reasonable doubt that could do this. Prussia closed his eyes, breathed slowly again, and pictured what he was about to do.

The rain-thick wood of the steps down to the lawn would creak slowly, softly beneath his feet. He would cross the grass in a straight line, his bird hovering high above him, and he would walk steadily and calmly, directly towards the group clustered around his picture and his flowers. He would keep walking, walking, walking, in that dead straight line, without any protests of his heart or stomach or brain. He could do that. He would keep walking, walking, until someone, perhaps the little minister with the wet robes and the fogged-up spectacles, saw him, and frowned, trying to make out his shape and face through the cloaking weather. His frown would deepen – and then his eyes would widen, and his cheeks go pale – as he recognised Prussia's face as that of the incredibly handsome man named Gilbert Beilschmidt, the one in the portrait, the one whose funeral he was currently conducting.

Prussia would simply keep walking.

The minister would splutter and shake, and, gradually, one-by-one, the mourners would turn their heads to glance backwards, to catch a glimpse of what had shaken the minister so. And then – then they would see him – and their hearts would pound, and there would be gasps, and people would blink, frantically, and rub their eyes...

And then, just as he reached the edge of the group, someone – perhaps Austria, if his speech was anything to go by – would cry out: "PRUSSIA!"

And he would smile, sorrowfully, regretfully, looking like a world-weary and ruggedly gorgeous war hero, and Austria's poor heart would hardly be able to take it. So, kind, generous man that he prided himself on being, Prussia would open up his arms, and take a few more steps forwards – and then Austria would detach himself from the group, sprint across the lawn towards him, and fling himself into Prussia's arms; the arms that had waited for that stuffy, perfectly wonderful aristocrat for well over eight hundred years...

Austria's body would be warm, and slender, pressing desperately against his own, and their lips would meet, hungrily yet beautifully, just like in the movies...and Prussia's big, manly hands would slide down to hold Austria's waist (he might even be able to get a sneaky feel as well, if he was lucky), and Austria's would reach up to grasp his shoulders, before slipping over his back and around his neck, gripping so tightly that Prussia would think that he'd never wriggle free...

And then his friends would crowd around him, shouting and crying and cheering for joy, all reaching out to touch him and hug him, check that he was warm and real and alive, and he would laugh, tip his head back and roar with France and Spain and his little brother, who would be annoyed at first but then come to see how damn hilarious the whole thing was as Prussia affectionately ruffled his hair...and all this time, Austria would press close to his side, clutching at his hand, and, at long last, with murmured, fervent, "I love you's", they would leave, arms around one another, trading kiss after kiss after kiss, whilst the others trailed behind them, hardly able to believe the magnificence of what had just played out before them.

Prussia stood straight, at last, opening his eyes and turning to face the lawns. The group was moving again. Someone else, Prussia thought, might be about to come forwards and speak – but there was no time for that now. The plan was set in motion, and he found his feet moving of their own accord whilst his brain choked through static.

The steps leading down off the terrace were indeed wet – and he skidded a little on them, grunting in irritation as he slid sideways and proceeded to trip over his own feet. The grass squelched unpleasantly beneath his weight, and he grimaced as he felt the cold water beginning to seep into his shoes, wetting his socks and his feet. With a groan, he looked back up towards the funeral. Through a gap between the dark coats and the rain-sluiced umbrellas, he spied a head of slicked-back, light blond hair, bowed slightly, and sad, drooping shoulders.

Oh.

Prussia did not move.

Because now Germany was stood at the side of his picture, looking just about as wretched and miserable as he had towards the end of the Second World War. He looked towards Austria, who seemed to be on the verge of collapse, and was holding himself, eyes shut tightly, in a desperate sort of fashion. Then, realising he was about to receive no support whatsoever from that direction, he opened his mouth. And then he stood there, motionless, for a long, long moment. His eyes were red; and beneath them lay smudges of deepest grey, and purple, and brown. He looked like he'd caught himself a couple of times whilst shaving; and his hair was unevenly combed.

Prussia suddenly felt exceedingly guilty. It was a fairly unfamiliar emotion, and he did not like it.

Germany opened his mouth again; but still no sound came out. He blinked, once, slowly; and his eyes glistened with –

Oh, _hell_ no. The Awesome Prussia's little bro _never _cried. That was _not_ cool.

And all of a sudden he was moving again. His legs, stiffened with cold and rain and guilt and a feeling that wasn't fear, no, definitely not, jerked into motion, carried him forwards across the soaked grass. His shoes squeaked and slipped, and the bottom hems of his jeans darkened as they became drenched in water, and his shoulders were stiff, and his hands screwed up into protective fists, and his head and thoughts felt oddly floaty, as though he wasn't quite one with the rest of his body, or was watching himself lurch like a broken-legged corpse towards that knot of black and tears from somewhere far away.

Or perhaps he wasn't shaking his way towards them – for they seemed to loom up towards him, waves upon waves of the others, even though he was taller than a lot of them. Their straight, frozen backs raced to meet him, and presently it came to him that he felt cold...very cold.

He kept going.

Meanwhile, a little way ahead, his eyes still cast downwards, Germany stood still and silent. His mouth opened and closed just once more, before he finally sagged a little, giving up. And then he muttered: "Goodbye, Gilbert. You were – you were the best brother an-anyone could ever –"

And then there was silence. Because at last Germany had lifted his head, and, unable to meet the teary eyes of those encircling him, had gazed past them, up towards the palace, across the lawn. And there, shifting his weight from foot to foot, grimacing, and trying very hard not to rub the back of his head, or bind his fingers together, or start fiddling with his shirt, was Prussia.

Prussia looked up at his brother.

And his brother looked down at him. His eyes were very wide and very watery.

The mourners fidgeted.

Germany's mouth moved, just a little – but yet again, no noise escaped his lips.

Prussia tried, and failed, to think of something at once memorable and soothing to say. And still Germany did not speak. And still he continued to stare.

The heads were beginning to turn now. And people were gasping and clapping their hands to their mouths, and blinking, furiously, as if to clear the smudge from their eyes that had begun to look a little like their dearly departed Prussia.

"H-hi," said Prussia, at last. "Hi, West."

Somebody screamed.

Someone else swore.

And the round little clergyman fainted.

Prussia took one cautious step towards his brother.

Germany did not move, but watched him, warily.

"West –" He held out a hand, pointlessly. This was not going at all how he had planned.

Germany's face was white – no, worse. It was grey. Grey like a dead man. And his lips were pale, almost blue, and dry, and trembling. He stepped forwards.

Prussia nodded, made a small, encouraging sound in the back of his throat.

Germany moved again, treading carefully, tentatively, as though he was stepping across a shaking, rotting wooden bridge which could fall apart beneath his feet at any second. His hands moved – just an inch or two away from his sides – as though he was trying to balance himself.

They were just about within arm's length of each other –

_WHAM._

Germany's solid fist smashed with the force and speed of a runaway train directly into his lower jaw.

Prussia yelped, his hands flying up to cup his throbbing face between his fingers.

Somebody behind him gasped.

"Fucking hell, West..."

"You're alive." Germany's voice was piercing; and yet it shook like that of a frightened infant.

"No need to sound so happy about it..." Prussia straightened. "You're a fucking –"

"Do you have even the slightest idea how it felt for me to get that call?" Germany's eyes were narrowed; his fists still clenched; and his voice was like ice. "Do you _any idea, _any _fucking _idea how it felt for me to have some _human, _some _police officer _tell me that my car had just been found, _crumpled and in flames, _just a few hours after I got that _stupid _message from you saying you'd borrowed it without my permission, _again?"_

Prussia rubbed his jaw, avoiding Germany's ferocious gaze. "Look, I know you liked that car, but –"

"YOU THINK THIS IS ABOUT THE _CAR?" _Germany's voice had risen to near deafening levels. "THE _CAR? _ARE YOU REALLY _THAT _FUCKING STUPID?"

"Hey –"

"I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!" Germany ranted on, heedless to Prussia's weak noises of protest. "I THOUGHT YOU'D BEEN KILLED! YOU DIDN'T EVEN THINK TO _CALL_ ME?"

Prussia opened his mouth, hoping that some instantaneously calming, wise, big-brother-type words would fall easily from the tip of his tongue. They didn't. He took a deep breath.

"My phone broke in the accident. I couldn't get to another phone to call you, I tried! All sorts of crazy stuff was going on, we – we really need to keep a closer eye on that Serbian mafia, guys," he added, desperately searching out the faces of other European nations in the dark crowd who stood rooted to the spot around him. Italy and Romano looked paler than he had ever seen them. Hungary's mouth had opened, at some point, and she had still not yet closed it. "And then there was this thing with some escaped penguins –"

"You just don't get it, do you, Prussia?"

Prussia turned slowly to face his brother once more.

Germany raised a hand to cover his eyes.

"You mean you don't believe m–"

Germany stepped closer. "I haven't slept, not once this week. I've hardly eaten. Look at my hands." He thrust them towards Prussia. They were nicotine-stained and shaking. "And you – you...you think you can just swan back here, spouting some nonsense about – about _the mafia _and _penguins, _and – and saying, 'Hi, West.' An-and...and you think it'll – it'll all b-be alright?"

Prussia could not think of a single thing to say.

Germany just stood there, and looked at him, practically vibrating with rage and overwhelming sadness, and suddenly he was that frightened little boy again, Prussia's golden-haired, blue-eyed angel whom he'd fought so hard for, and loved so much, and it was their first day back in Prussia's home since he'd taken that sobbing child away from France. And Ludwig (he wasn't Römisches anymore, and he wasn't Germany yet) had stood in the middle of that big, splendid hallway he did not know, and cowered, scrubbing at his tear-stained face with tightly curled little fingers.

And so Prussia did the only thing he'd ever been able to do right, as a brother, as a nation, as a fucking_ thing, _seeing as how everything else he had ever done had only landed him in trouble: he did what he had done that day in the cavernous, magnificent Prussian hallway all those years ago. He stepped in close to his brother, his beloved little brother, and he lifted his arms, and he wrapped them tightly around his shoulders (once so small and weak, now broader than his own), and put his right hand into Germany's hair, and gently pushed his head until it rested upon his right shoulder.

And they stood still together, and said nothing.

And slowly, slowly, Germany lifted his arms up too, and wrapped them around Prussia, and sighed.

The rain still fell – Prussia could feel it trickling down the back of his neck – and his feet were squishing around inside his cold, wet shoes – but it was alright.

"I bet you thought you were going to swoop in and make some ridiculously grand entrance," Germany muttered, at last, into his shoulder. "Bet you thought we'd all fall over ourselves trying to worship you."

"Maybe just a bit," said Prussia, and, rather awkwardly, they drew apart.

"Prussia!"

A tanned hand shot out of nowhere to grip his own, and suddenly he was tugged against a strong, slender figure with a tear-streaked face and an unkempt suit. "Spain!" Then there was another person on his other side – one with tangled, fair hair, and a beard that looked a lot more dishevelled than usual. "France!" he said, and France let out a choked sob in response, and then they were nothing more than a laughing mess of arms and languages and expletives, and those two crazy romantics were kissing his cheeks, tracing the shape of his bruised jaw, and his nose, and his brow, crying and cursing his name like they thought they'd never get to speak it again...

"The poem –" Prussia managed, "– it was gay as fuck. Don't you dare do anything sissy like that again."

"You saw that? You saw us reading your poem?"

"I saw," said Prussia, "I saw the whole..."

And then, between the tangle of arms, and past Spain's joyous, weeping smile, and France's rain-frizzed hair, he saw a pair of stupid violet eyes widening; a delicate hand rising up to press hard against an open mouth.

There was a quiet, polite sob.

He did not move.

And beside him, France and Spain fell still.

"Austria –"

Austria stared straight at him a second longer – then he turned, sharply, soundlessly, and half-ran, half-marched away from him, from the funeral, up the lawns, around the palace, and out of sight.

Prussia did not move.

France took a step towards him. "I think, my dear," he said, "that is your cue to do something."

And Prussia ran.


	7. Chapter 7

He found Austria ten minutes later in the parking lot, leaning on his car with a hand still pressed hard against his mouth. His shoulders were shaking, and even from a distance Prussia could see that his eyes were tightly closed. He hesitated, somewhat loathe to interrupt the other in such a private and vulnerable moment.

Prussia squirmed internally. How fucking embarrassing. Deep in the recesses of his brain a little voice was telling him that he had no right, really, to hope for anything pleasant to come from this situation – that he certainly didn't deserve Austria's forgiveness after this, after everything, after every single facet of their lives spent together, utterly apart – but another voice, a slightly louder one, the one that Prussia preferred to listen to, and which was frequently heard issuing at quite a volume from between his lips, told him to stop standing there in the rain, in a parking-lot filled with empty, wet cars, and to move; to go towards Austria and apologise, and explain why he didn't call, and tell him that he liked the speech, and...and...

And here was where things became tricky, because Prussia wasn't good at feelings, and tenderness, and being gentle with other people. He liked Austria – oh, God, he _loved _Austria, he _adored _him – but Austria didn't like him, Austria liked _women, _for fuck's sake, and Austria clearly had no desire whatsoever to waste any more of his time at a funeral for a man who a) existed to do nothing but irritate him, b) wasn't actually a proper country anymore, and c) couldn't even die properly. So, in reality, Prussia supposed that it was the quiet voice he should listen to this time. He should, he thought, just turn around, give it up, go back to his brother and his friends, and get absolutely hammered.

Which would be a fairly decent plan – except for the fact that Austria was still stood there, in the pouring rain, leaning back against his car with a hand clapped to his mouth and his eyes closed, sobbing, apparently...and suddenly Prussia's feet were moving again, without his head's permission, and he really had no idea what he was going to say, and Jesus Christ, his heart was fucking _pounding..._

Austria did not realise that he was there until Prussia was practically on top of him; and when he did he jumped, violently, his face draining of all colour, and he made a horrified, desperate sort of noise, and half-turned in an effort to get away.

"Wait," said Prussia, and he reached out and grabbed the other man's wrist. "Please." He stopped. He didn't know what else to say. The rain continued to fall down on them, poker-straight and relentless.

Austria ran his hand beneath his glasses and over his eyes quickly, fixing the other with a fierce scowl. "Let me go."

"No." Prussia had not planned this far ahead, and was already beginning to struggle.

Austria stared at him for a moment; then violently wrenched his arm from Prussia's grasp. He did not run away. He did not speak, either.

"Please," Prussia tried again, "Just – let me explain...I...I just want to talk –"

"I have nothing to say to you."

"You had plenty to say earlier," said Prussia, with venom – and the other man's cheeks turned red, and he cast his gaze down to the ground.

"I...shouldn't have said it."

Prussia would have laughed at him, bitterly – it was almost a reflex response, by this point – but instead his mouth opened, and, unbidden, words crept out swiftly, surprising him.

"I'm...I'm glad you did."

Austria stiffened beneath his hand.

Prussia waited for him to say something. He didn't.

"It was...nice," he added, weakly, and felt rather sickened with himself.

Austria's eyes flickered his way quickly, surreptitiously, and he seemed to relax somewhat. Prussia slowly released his grip on the other's wrist, though truly he was loathe to let that warm, slender limb go. He wondered, his heart flickering weakly within his chest, what the aristocrat would have done if he'd slid his palm downwards and wrapped their fingers together.

"Th-thank you."

They stood there against the car, side-by-side in complete silence. The roof of the vehicle spluttered hollowly as it was steadily pounded with raindrops, and the gravel beneath their feet crunched and coughed wetly against their shoes. In a tree somewhere behind them, Prussia knew Gilbird was sheltering. He chanced a quick glance towards the man at his side. Austria was staring straight ahead, his eyes unfocused, his lips and cheeks still pale.

"Did you really think I was dead?"

It felt almost blasphemous to speak; to tear through the quietness of the soaked air and lawns and the palace and the parking lot.

Austria moved, just slightly. Prussia heard his breath shudder within his lungs, or perhaps his throat before he answered.

"This has been one of the hardest weeks of my entire life."

Which was an answer, and wasn't, and really, after all this time, Prussia needed something far more concrete than that. He likes women, said the voice in his head, And he doesn't like you anyway, and then it said, You don't deserve him.

"R-really?"

Austria turned to face him. Up close, Prussia could not miss how sallow his skin looked; how unkempt his hair was. He saw the deep brown and grey and purple rings staining the area beneath his eyes, and the little dents in his lower lip where teeth had caught and ground and shredded. A vein stood out at his temple.

"You know," he said, softly, "when the Wall went up, and you were gone for...nearly thirty years...it felt like such a long time. Everything does, with you."

He lifted a thin hand, pushed his fingers beneath his glasses, and rubbed his eyes.

"This still feels like a dream. I keep thinking I'm going to wake up and you'll be...you'll be gone." His voice cracked slightly.

"Sorry," said Prussia. "Not for a long time yet."

Austria looked back at him. His eyes shimmered behind the lenses of his spectacles, and Prussia's chest tightened strangely. "I don't want you to."

A silence fell. Rain crawled down Prussia's back, beneath the collar of his shirt, plastering the material to his skin. It teased his hair into melting spikes and flattened it against the curve of his skull. At his side, the other too was waterlogged and still, anchored by feelings and the pressure of the weather.

Prussia studied him, that elegant profile...the even sweep of his nose, the dip and fold of his damp lips, his eyelashes, clumped and damp, and the weak fall of those tired eyelids, reddened with something that tied his stomach in knots and shot a stopper into his windpipe. There was something that needed to be said, something he had to ask the other man, but he really had no idea how to form the words, how to ask for what he wanted, what had been hinted at when Austria was wading, wet-eyed and tongue-tied through his speech, but couldn't _possibly _be the truth...

He inhaled slowly and deeply, steadying himself, rooting his body in the world because he _was alive, _no matter what he had seen, no matter how long he had stood and watched on the terrace, he was still there, breathing and feeling and seeing –

"Why did you say it?"

It took a moment – the rain continued to pound and pitter and patter down – and then Austria's head turned, slowly, and he said, carefully, his voice thick as though he was suffering from a bad head cold: "Why did I say what?"

"What you said." Why did it have to be so fucking difficult? "About...me. In your speech. Why did you say...all that stuff you said...why didn't you just – just do a poem, or – or just – say goodbye, like everyone else did?"

Austria's cheeks turned scarlet.

"Prussia –"

"No, seriously, I want to know."

Another silence stretched tightly between them. By this point, every item of clothing on Prussia's body was soaked through, clinging to his chest and arms and stomach and legs. Austria was shivering, his glasses were streaked and smudged, and rainwater was dripping steadily from the pointed tip of his nose.

For a moment, Prussia thought he wasn't going to get a reply. Then Austria shifted – he felt it, felt the lethargic, sorrowful movement against his side – and Austria murmured: "You really don't know why?"

Prussia said nothing. He was very still, and very tense.

"You really don't know why I said you were wonderful? Or beautiful? Or why I baked all those – those damn cakes for you? Or...or why I let you dirty up my home, or sleep on my sofa? Or why I loved seeing your boots, and the dirt, and the mess so much? Or why I made no effort, none at all to make you leave my house whenever you came to pester me, even though I complained about it so much? Or why I made that – that ridiculous speech in the first place? You really don't know? After...after all this time?"

His back felt very strange; very rigid, and very cold, all at once like a solid block of ice, and as though it was crumbling like ancient yellow paper. His heart was beating very fast – or perhaps it wasn't beating at all – and his head was spinning and his eyes were half-blinded by what may have been nothing or might have been everything.

And he thought about the crash, and the Wall, and that very first meeting with the violet-eyed, dark-haired child, and the end of Germania, and the marriage of his beloved to Spain, and the futile training of his little brother, and the night before Hungary took his darling away from him, stole his heart, and about France's arm around his own lost, amnesic sibling, and the red flags with the flipped black and white symbols which may have once meant peace, and the wheelchair, and the night before his exile, and the crusade – all the crusades – and the funeral, and about how, even though it was completely illogical and mad and _so fucking girly, _how, above all else, he loved and adored his young master.

He turned, slowly, stiffly, to meet the other man's gaze. Austria's lips and eyes were swollen with unconquerable sadness, bright red, and his nose was red too, and running. His eyes were sunken, and his cheeks were snow-white, and he was shaking –

And Prussia could count every raindrop and every salty tear caught in Austria's eyelashes...

And Prussia could see every twitch of those swollen, chewed-up lips...

And Prussia could see, and feel, the clouding curls of warm, white breath in the narrow air between them, and against his own face...

And that air was becoming thinner, thinner, thinner...

When they touched – when their lips touched, so lightly it could have been a dream, a dream of somebody else, retold to them – it was cautious, and they were both stiff with fear. Their bodies hardly moved; hands remained clenched tightly down at their sides, and though their eyelids lowered, they did not close, not fully, and they did not press against one another...not at first.

They moved in, and out, and in again, painfully slowly, cupid's bows and the round jut of their lower lips brushing tentatively, their mouths hardly moving at all, just coming together, bumping like acorns or leaves fallen and floating upon slow water...

Austria's nose tickled his, cautiously, politely, and the frames of his spectacles knocked against Prussia's cheeks. They pulled apart, gradually, saying nothing, because there was nothing _to_ say, nothing they could possibly say, now...and their silver, shining breath stretched out between them, taut like a tugged thread, and drew them back irresistibly into one another, time and time and time again.

Austria kissed him, again and again, pressing little tender, shaky, mouthing pecks to his lips and his cheeks, and that space between there and his jawline, his spine drawn up high with fear, his hands hovering close to his stomach, afraid to rise up any higher.

Prussia did not move.

Prussia _could _not move.

It was rather difficult to work out what, exactly, was occurring, because his brain seemed to have spluttered to a halt the instant that Austria had turned towards him, tilted his wet, exhausted face upwards, and touched their lips together. He felt as though he was sinking into the earth; or perhaps melting away through the rain, like a sagging, grey mist, because there was no way, _no way _this could possibly be happening...

The insuperable weight of history fell across the breadth of his shoulders, and forced all the oxygen that sat stacked up within his lungs out, and across the other man's lips. They parted, and Austria looked up at him, slowly, speckled with rain, bruised by fatigue.

"Pr-Prussia..." He tried to continue, but made not a sound.

Their heavy breathes continued to condense in the cold, water-pierced air between them and before them and all around them.

Prussia realised he would have to say something. It was, however, very, very difficult to do so when Austria was stood there in front of him, those tempting lips working slowly, anxiously, and really, all he wanted in that moment was that mouth on his again, properly this time, gaping and closing in desperate licks and hard sucks rather than light, half-formed bumps of nose against nose.

His chest tightened – and the words overflowed and spilt out, messy and painful.

"B-but...but you like _girls!"_

Austria blinked up at him.

Prussia felt very out of breath, and ever-so-slightly un-awesome.

"I – I beg your pardon?"

"Girls," he said, and he felt like a fucking idiot repeating himself. "You like girls! You – you like _Hungary!"_

Austria's mouth was open, and his narrow, neat eyebrows were furrowed. "Wh– what? Girls?"

Prussia was feeling extremely confused and conflicted, and very fucking lovesick. How lame.

"What on earth gave you that idea?"

And suddenly it felt as though some giant being with giant hands had seized the carpet of gravel beneath his feet, and given it one long, hard tug, and sent him tumbling through space.

"Wh-what?"

"Why on earth did you think I liked – women?" Austria's mouth was wide open, and so were his eyes, and there was so much flickering in them that Prussia felt slightly dizzy trying to watch.

"B-because..."

"Prussia, I bake fairy cakes." And then Austria was smiling, and his eyes were shining, and his head was tilted to the side, and he was looking upon Prussia with something like pity, and something like affection...except...except that couldn't _possibly _be right...and he was suddenly stood right in front of him, gazing up at his face, his slender, lovely hands closing gently on the sodden fabric of Prussia's shirt. "I wear a jabot and a waistcoat. I style my hair with straightening irons and I wear glasses for aesthetic purposes. Prussia, I have _window boxes._" He laughed, and Prussia saw small, round tears beginning to gather in the corners of his eyes.

"B-but...I mean...I'm a very...modern-minded man! How am I supposed to know –"

"You said that playing the piano was 'gay'!" Austria exclaimed, his smile widening even further, and oh, how long had it been since Prussia had seen that? "If my music is gay, what are all the flower arrangements I have in my house?"

"But...but Hungary –"

"Hungary is my best friend!"

Prussia spluttered mindlessly, torn between tossing the stupid, namby-pamby, fucking _wonderful_ aristocrat over the front of his car and just _ravishing _him, and punching him in the face for all the centuries of woe he had managed to cause him.

And Austria just laughed some more, and raised a shaking hand to cup his jaw.

"Oh, Prussia..."

"I...I..." he said, because he couldn't say the words he really meant – they were so damn _soft – _but Austria just smiled, and pressed even closer.

"I tried to tell you," he said, softly, his fingers working with the material of the other's shirt, "so many times how I feel about you..."

"I'm sorry," Prussia said, because he really couldn't think of anything else to say, and everything hurt, _so much, _but he was smiling, too, and his heart was pounding, really pounding, and it suddenly occurred to him that he was really, really, happy –

"Wait a moment," Austria said, and he was so beautiful when he looked at Prussia like that, all trembling, half-concealed smiles, his hair knotted and his glasses wet, "did the _awesome _Prussia just apologize to me?"

"Uh – no!" Prussia wanted to laugh, to shout with joy, and oh, stupid prissy-pants, what was he doing?

"You did. You just said 'sorry.'"

"I definitely didn't."

"You most certainly did!"

"If you hadn't interrupted me I would have been able to finish my sentence. What I _was_ going to say, before you forgot all your dumb, prissy manners, was 'I'm sorry you've always been too much of a wuss to tell me how you feel.'"

Austria rolled his eyes – but he was still smiling. "Actually," he said, suddenly, "I think it is _you _who is the 'wuss' here. I made my speech. You haven't said anything."

Prussia opened and closed his mouth several times, struggling, whilst Austria moved both of his hands to Prussia's shoulders, smirking a little.

"W-well –"

"Yes?"

Austria's lips were trembling. He was trying so hard, Prussia thought, not to laugh.

"Stop giggling, priss!"

Austria raised his eyebrows, still smiling. "Well? Are you going to say it? Or are you going to finally admit defeat and accept that it is you who is the 'wuss'?"

"Not on your life."

"Go on then," said Austria, leaning up and wrapping both of his arms around Prussia's shoulders. "Say it. Say it now."

And then Prussia leant down, and Austria craned his neck up, and all at once the past eight hundred years, and Germany's mangled wreck of a car, and those escaped penguins, and the Serbian mafia, and every single member of the funeral party, all of them no doubt wondering what the hell was going on right now, everything, simply faded away with the dying rain...

And as the downpour finally ended, leaving only fat droplets of water which had grown too heavy for the leaves on the trees they had insistently clung to plopping down meekly to the soaked-through ground, Prussia wrapped one arm all the way round Austria's back, and positioned his other hand on the back of Austria's head, and pressed his lips against Austria's left ear.

"I love you, stupid priss," he said. "Always loved you."

And, properly, fully, deeply this time, finally, at long, long last – they kissed.

The End

* * *

><p><em>And there you have it :p I hope nobody's too disappointed with it! Thank you all so much for reading, favouriting, watching, and commenting, it really does mean a lot to me, so thanks again. I try really hard to respond to every message I get, so if you have any questions about <em>Lazarus, _or about any of my fics, please don't hesitate to PM me! _

_Thanks again, and hopefully see you soon in another fic :p _


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